


The Soft Closing of a Door

by doilycoffin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doilycoffin/pseuds/doilycoffin
Summary: With no interference from the supernatural, Sam and Dean grow up living a normal childhood with a more-or-less normal brotherly relationship. After the death of their father, Dean follows Sam to California and it isn't until after years of pining that they realize they've both been harboring less-than-strictly-familial feelings towards each other. When Sam is sexually assaulted and hospitalized one night while walking home after work, they both must navigate the changes it brings to their dynamic and try to overcome them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first big bang entry!! 
> 
> Special thank you to my artist and very good friend nisaki-chan, who was VERY patient with me as I stumbled through my first bigbang fic and who also gave me some extremely valuable feedback as I was writing. Please check out her masterpost [HERE](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/179721666724/art-for-the-soft-closing-of-a-door-wincest-big)
> 
> And to my beta non_sum_lacerte, thank you for looking over this fic even though you haven't been in the fandom for like five years. You're a champ!

 

 

Dean reads the letter over and over again until the words “pleased to offer you admission” blur together and lose all meaning. When he first tore open the envelope a few minutes ago (under duress from Sam, who demanded that he stop being a wuss and get it over with) he was filled with the kind of overwhelming dread that one can only feel when they just _know_ they’re about to be swiftly rejected, but the acceptance letter is somehow even more nerve wracking.

Sam is sitting across from him on the bedroom floor, staring at him expectantly as he drums his fingers on the soda stained carpet and fails to hide his impatience. Dean had a feeling that he would be a pain about the whole thing, but Sam is the one who always nagged him into studying and spent hours helping him revise his admissions essays until they were word-perfect, so he reasons that Sam has as much a stake in the matter as he does and couldn’t picture himself opening the fate-determining envelope without him there.

When Sam finally gets sick of waiting for Dean to read the letter aloud, he reaches over to snatch it out of his hands and takes a moment to skim the contents. Dean watches as Sam’s face falls just the slightest bit for a split second before he plasters a grin on his face and turns back to Dean.

“Wow,” he says, the enthusiasm in his voice only ringing mostly true. “Guess we’ll have to haul all your junk to Cambridge this summer, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean says absently, not wanting to think that far ahead. “Or maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” Sam frowns as he fidgets with the hem of his shirt. He’s wearing a Zeppelin tee, the old tie-dye one  from their tour in the 70s with Icarus emblazoned right in the middle that Dean wore until the washing machine ate holes in the sleeves and made the once vibrant colors of it dull and muted. Sam probably stole it out of the laundry a while back, the rat, even though he didn’t even _like_ Zeppelin that much. But Dean himself nabbed it from their Dad at some point years ago, so he figures that maybe turnabout is fair play.

“There are plenty of schools around here to go to,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and trying to sound casual about it. “Maybe K-State or something. It’s only like an hour and a half away, so I could probably come back here on weekends and stuff.”

Sam’s face twists in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? You got an acceptance letter from MIT and you wanna hang around in _Kansas_? There’s no way you’re staying here.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean drones sarcastically. “Good to know you can’t wait to get me on the other side of the country.”

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t chicken out on this. It’s not like just anyone who applies to MIT is able to get in; you’ve earned this, Dean. You deserve it.” It’s been a while since Sam’s looked at him like that, his wide eyed expression filled with hero worship for his big brother, and his intense stare is filled with such admiration that it makes Dean feel a little warm.

“Whatever,” he mutters sheepishly, turning away so Sam can’t see the smile on his face. “And I’m not trying to chicken out. I just figured you and Dad wouldn’t make it if I wasn’t around, that’s all.”

Sam’s expression becomes righteously offended, but he also somehow turned making Easy Mac into a complicated affair involving a fire extinguisher a couple of weeks ago, so Dean feels justified in doubting his ability to cook for himself on a long term basis with an absence of medical emergencies.

“I’m serious. How are you guys even gonna feed yourselves while I’m gone? You’ll probably end up eating the stuffing out of the couch within the week.”

“We’re not _animals_. Dad cooks sometimes,” Sam argues.

“He can make, like, _one_ stew.”

“Then I’ll cook.”

Dean looks at Sam grimly. “Look Sammy, I know you and Dad don’t always get along, but you don’t have to poison the guy.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Sam says, but he laughs anyway and slugs Dean in the shoulder as punishment for insulting his non-existent culinary talents.

“Hey now, don’t start something you can’t finish,” Dean threatens lightly, his shoulder tingling just a little from the impact. Too lightly, if the way that Sam sticks his tongue out at him is any indication. Deciding to take advantage of Sam’s playful mood, Dean takes him by surprise and digs his fingers into his sides, mercilessly tickling him until Sam is red faced and lying on the floor with Dean looming over him.

“Stop it, asshole,” he demands, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he can barely force the words out in between fits of giggling.

“Make me.”

Sam kicks out one of his socked feet and makes contact with Dean’s thigh, and it knocks him just off balance enough for Sam to be able to pry his hands off him. Neither of them are willing to call it a truce quite yet and Dad isn’t here to get on their case for roughhousing indoors, so they end up wrestling on the floor, getting more banged up by accidentally rolling into the furniture in his room than by each other.

Dean knows that he probably could easily overpower his still-scrawny younger brother with his own bulkier frame, but he humors Sam for a few minutes anyway until he finally tires of the whole thing and gets Sam on his back with his skinny wrists pinned above his head. Sam struggles in his grasp half-heartedly for a few seconds before sagging into the carpet and looking up at him with a disgruntled expression on his face.

“Alright, alright, I give in,” he says with his chest heaving from exertion.

“Because...?” Dean prompts.

“Because you’re bigger and stronger than me,” he answers with no inflection in his voice. Dean’s kind enough not to hold the lack of sincerity against him.

“Good start,” he praises as Sam gives him a withering glare. “Now start talking about how your life will be empty and meaningless while I’m gone and how you’ll cry yourself to sleep every--”

“Dean!”

 

 

“Jeeze, fine.” Dean lets go of his wrists and rolls backwards off of Sam to sit against the wall and catch his breath, only to nearly have it knocked out of him again when Sam unexpectedly launches himself from his prone position and wraps his arms around his waist after crashing into him.

“I am gonna miss you,” Sam admits, his voice barely a mumble as if he’ afraid that Dean is about to make fun of him for it. “For like...a day. Maybe a week, tops.”

It takes Dean off guard at first. Sam used to be a pretty affectionate kid, always tackling him with a hug when he got home from school or clinging to his jacket sleeve so Dean was never more than an arm’s length away, but adolescence made him more stand-offish and any overtures of physical affection or contact made by Dean were rebuffed more often than not. After a moment, Dean relaxes into the embrace and returns it, trying not to think about the fact that everything would have to change between them in just a few months.

Summer goes by all too quickly, and it isn’t long before Dean is standing in the middle of his significantly-more-bare childhood bedroom and wondering where the time went. Most of his boxes are already loaded in Dad’s truck and he knows they need to get a move on soon; it’s  silly to be getting all nostalgic anyway, he tells himself. It isn’t like he won’t come back to visit on holidays or anything like that. No need to get all sappy about it. With one last sigh and a final glance around the room, Dean turns off the lights and walks downstairs, only to be startled when something heavy and metal hurtles towards his chest and bounces off of it and onto the floor.

“What gives?” he grouses after letting out a small ‘oof.’ He leans down to pick the object off of the floor-- a set of car keys. He stares at them in wonderment before looking up and seeing Dad standing before him, his lips quirked upwards. “Are these…?”

“You didn’t think I’d shell out money for a plane ticket every time you wanted to come down here, did you?” Dad askes, his voice in that pretending-to-be-gruff tone of his that Dean had grown accustomed to hearing whenever he wanted to do a nice gesture without making a huge display of it. “Gotta get from point A to point B somehow, and I figure you’ve put enough work into that car over the past few years to make her practically yours already anyway.”

Dean had been angling subtly all summer to be allowed to take their beloved Impala with him to college, but he figured that it was a lost cause when John barely responded to his hints with more than a grunt about “discussing it later.”

“You just be sure to take care of her,” John continues as Dean grins widely. “People in Boston drive like they’ve got nothing to lose; bunch of goddamn lunatics.”

“Yes sir,” Dean agrees, exuberance clear in his voice. He gives his father a jaunty salute for good measure, and John rolls his eyes fondly and ruffles his hair before they walk out the front door to find Sam standing in the driveway, leaning against the truck with his arms crossed.

“We were supposed to leave like an hour ago,” he complains.

Dean resists the urge to sigh at Sam’s huffiness; he was always getting his panties in a twist over things as insignificant as punctuality, and he’s  just surprised that Sam was able to restrain himself to a few choice words instead of laying on the truck’s horn to get their attention.

 

“I know you’re eager to finally get rid of me, but ease up a little,” he teases.

“Yeah, I’m just dying to be sandwiched in between boxes of your Playboys for a twenty hour drive.”

Dean wants to tell him that he only has a singular box of nudie mags, thank you very much, but figures that it isn’texactly a stellar defense. Instead, he wisely ignored Sam and passes by him on his way over to the Impala and opens the door.

“You coming or what?” he asks impatiently.

Sam stands up straight, the scowl dropping from his face, and Dean watches as a sunnier expression tugs at the corners of his lips. “Wait, really?” He’s nearly bouncing on his heels in excitement and, for once, Dean is amused by how quickly Sam’s entire demeanor can turn on a dime. He would probably miss it when he was away at school. Almost.

“You’re in charge of the map while Dean’s driving; don’t let him get lost,” John says in lieu of an actual answer, already climbing into the driver’s seat of the truck.

                        *********

It’s easy, traveling with Sam. Even when the novelty of the road trip wore off and Sam had exhausted his repertoire of dumb license plate games to play (that he absolutely cheats at, in Dean’s opinion. Why the hell would a Wyoming plate be worth triple score?), even after Dean had to smack his hand away from the radio once every half hour, and even after Sam stuck his bare feet all over the dashboard to piss him off, Dean still feels at ease just driving for hours on end with his brother in the passenger seat. He tries to pretend that they’re just going on vacation or something, that their trip wouldn’t end with Sam and Dad heading back home without him while he was left truly on his own for the first time in his life, and Sam seems to be on the same page as him because, for the first time all summer, he isn’t bugging him incessantly with questions about what classes he’s going to take, what clubs he’s planning to join, and so on and so forth.

When they first started the trip, Dean felt like driving half-way across the country would take forever, and the sight of a large, green “Welcome to Massachusetts” sign is a jarring reminder of how quickly the time flew by. Dad beats them to campus by at least ten minutes and is already stacking up boxes outside of the truck by the time they get there. Dean is still a bit tetchy from the drive into Cambridge (it turned out that Dad hadn’t been kidding about Boston drivers; Dean is fairly sure his left eye has developed a permanent twitch), and the foul mood persists as he checks into his dormitory and began hauling his junk into it with Sam and Dad. Even getting hit on by a few of his fellow hot, incoming Freshmen in the halls of the dorm isn’t enough to lift his spirits, and the pit of unease in his stomach threatens to consume him entirely by the time that all of the his boxes are situated in his room, only growing worse when Sam and Dad finally have to head home at the end of the day.

 

******

Dean shifts on the uncomfortable dorm mattress and lets Sam’s voice wash over him during their twice-weekly phone call. He’s only been away for a couple of months, but it feels like years, and he only hopes that Sam can’t detect the homesickness in his voice. He can clearly picture Sam and his various textbooks and half finished essays sprawled out on the living room sofa, the ugly blue and green monstrosity that had over a decade’s worth of stains permanently embedded in its cushions that had been in the house for as long as they’ve lived in it. It was a lumpy, unforgiving thing but apparently being away from home has turned Dean into a walking chick flick moment because all he can think about are all the nights he and Sam spent sitting on it and watching whatever cheesy action movie marathon was showing on tv and he feels a sudden longing for a simpler time.

Oblivious to his sulking, Sam is going through his weekly check-list of questions (and Dean is pretty sure that Sam really does have a literal check-list. Probably has a neatly labeled journal dedicated to it and everything.) Trying to keep up with the barrage of questions that Sam peppers him with during their phone calls is tough work, but Dean has become well fluent in Sam-babble over the years and answers them to the best of his ability when Sam finally has to stop and take a breath.

“Yes, I got an A on the math exam; no, my english professor is still a total dick; yes, the cafeteria food is better than I expected; no, I haven’t been forced by a Frat house to do a hazing ritual involving chugging vinegar and putting Icy Hot on my balls, what fucking movies have you been watching?; yes, I’ve been to the library. One of them anyway, they have like five or something. You’d totally jizz your pants over them. And yeah, my roommate’s an okay guy. Total nerd though, so you’d probably get along.”

Sam snorts. “You’re an engineering major at MIT. I think that automatically makes you the biggest nerd I know.”

“Hey,” Dean defends with mock anger, “I’ve never been anything but cool and you know it.”

“You were vice-president of our school’s robotics club.”

“...vice-president of a _cool_ robotics club. With cool robots. We painted flames and stuff on them sometimes.”

“Dude, just admit that you’re king of the nerds,” Sam teases. Dean glares at the wall even though Sam can’t see him, and tries to remember why he ever felt homesick at all. Brat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Enough about me. How are things with you and dad at home? Have you tried to strangle each other to death yet?”

“No murder yet, just a little light maiming,” Sam says mildly.

“I don’t know, Sammy. I haven’t talked to Dad in at least a week; how do I know you’re not pulling a _Weekend at Bernie’s_ or something?”

Sam exhales dramatically and Dean can practically see his eyes roll all the way back in his head as he leans away from the phone to shout something, presumably to their dad in another room.

“Dean wants to know if I’ve killed you and buried you in the backyard or something,” he hears Sam boom across the house.

After a couple of seconds, he hears someone dryly yell back, “tell your brother he’s hilarious.”

“Dad said you’re an asshole,” Sam claims, his voice less tinny now that the phone is closer to his face again.

“Did not.”

Their squabbling dies down eventually and, for a moment, it’s so quiet that Dean can hear the rattling hum of the air conditioner blowing through his dorm room and the light scratching of pencil on paper as Sam is no doubt trying to scribble down some of his homework during the lulls in conversation.

“Things have been a little better between us since you left,” Sam admits. “I mean, not entirely, but we’ve getting on each others’ nerves less anyway.”

“Thanks. Good to know I was the only thing standing in the way of you two getting along.”

Sam’s words sting a little more than he wants to admit, and Sam must have been able to sense it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant...you know, you were always the one who got between us whenever we started going at it and now that you aren’t here, we just kind of have to deal with each other. The first couple of weeks totally sucked, but eventually we got over it.”

Dean knows that he should be happy that Sam and Dad aren’t at each others’ throats while he’s  gone, but a little part of him is strangely disappointed by the idea that they seem to function just fine without him around. What kind of person wishes that their family would fall to pieces without them there? He tries not to let that bitterness show in his response. “That’s great, Sammy. I told you that you just needed to give him a chance.”

“I’m pretty sure he misses you a lot though,” Sam offers as a consolation. “He keeps trying to get me to do car stuff with him like you used to. He even made me watch him change a carburetor a few days ago.”

Even over the phone, Dean can see the way that Sam’s face scrunches up at that and he laughs as he tries to picture Sam standing in front of the truck’s open hood, sullenly handing their Dad tools and half paying attention as the process is explained to him. “I hope you were paying attention, Sammy. A little bit of car knowledge goes a long way. How are you gonna take care of your own car one day if you don’t know squat about it?”

“Whatever. I’m still not even sure what a carburetor does, but I figure I can always just get you to change it I need to.” The implicit meaning behind Sam’s words makes some of his previous bitterness dissipate and he feels at ease from the way that Sam just seems to take it as a given that Dean will always be around to help him out of a jam without reservation. And if Dean has anything to say about it, he’s  going to live up to that notion.

For the next several minutes, Sam moves on to to chatting excitedly about the upcoming winter break and all of the grand plans he has in store for them and Dean just closes his eyes and pretends for a minute that he’s sitting right there beside Sam on their ugly-ass couch, listening to Sam’s endless rambling in person.

 

************

 

Dean doesn’t notice the call until hours after it’s made, and he knows he’s going to regret that for the rest of his life. He was busy buckling down and studying for a couple of exams at the library; Sam would be proud of his work ethic, he was pretty sure.

When he finally checks his voicemail after making the trek back to his dorm and flopping down on the bed, he immediately feels on high alert when he sees that Sam has left him four separate voicemails within the span of half an hour and his heart pounds when he hears Sam’s voice tremble over the speakers.

“Dean? Something’s happened to Dad.”

*********

Dean shambles into the Lawrence hospital with swollen eyes and heavy limbs. Getting a flight as quickly as possible had been a nightmare, and he hasn’t slept at all since hearing Sam’s series of increasingly panicked and wrenching voicemails begging him to come home because Dad had been rushed to the hospital and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t need to be told twice, and he immediately dropped everything at school to come back to Lawrence without so much as emailing his professors to let them know he would miss their exams. He was practically in a fugue state on the plane ride, too distracted by anxiety and concern to remember that he was deathly afraid of flying. He doesn’t even entirely remember the trip from the airport to the hospital; things just don’t really snap into place for him again until he finds the hospital’s ER waiting room and sees Sam curled up in one of the chairs. Sam doesn’t notice him at first, and Dean notes how pale and drawn he seems and how red his eyes are. He looks more like a scared little boy than a high school student and Dean feels sick thinking about how many hours Sam had been left to deal with the situation by himself.

“Sammy?” he croaks out, unsure if his voice is even audible. It must have been though, because Sam immediately perks up and melts with relief, as if the fact that Dean’s there means that everything is going to be okay. He unfolds himself awkwardly out of the chair and launches himself into Dean’s arms, clinging tightly to his jacket and burying his face in his shirt. Dean wants to tell him that everything is going to be fine, but he doesn’t think he has the energy to make it even slightly convincing, so he settles for running his fingers through Sam’s hair and hugging him back just as tightly.

“It was my fault,” he hears Sam say eventually, his voice muffled from how it’s pressed against Dean’s chest.

Dean frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“That Dad...that he’s here,” Sam explains. “I think it was his heart. Maybe if I had made him eat better, or go to the doctor more often or--”

Dean sighs. “You can’t think like that, Sammy. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you go down that road.”

Sam tries to protest but Dean only shushes him. Sam is dozing on his shoulder in an uneasy sleep by the time that the doctor comes into the waiting room with a gentle look on her face that was borne from delivering bad news to countless patients.

**********

 

Dean always knew, in an abstract sort of way, that it would most likely fall to him to arrange Dad’s funeral someday. He just always envisioned that it would take place at some nebulous point decades into the future and not when he was still in school and didn’t actually have any idea what he was doing. He isn’t entirely sure how he manages to muddle through it all, but it’s all too soon that he’s solemnly helping Sam with his tie before the funeral and trying not to think about the fact that Dad did the same thing for him before Mom’s funeral all those years ago.

Time seems to creep by and move too quickly all at once after that and the subject of Dean returning to school is one that neither of them brings up until they can no longer reasonably avoid it. Dean knows that he can go back if he wants to, that Sam won’t hold it against him if he does. Dad’s buddy up in Sioux Falls even offers to help him out taking Sam in until he’s finished with his last couple of years of high school, but even though he thinks that Sam might be amenable to the idea, the idea of being hundreds of miles away from Sam again fills him with an icy sort of panic that he doesn’t know how to quelch. He isn’t sure what he would do if he was taking an exam or studying while his voicemail filled up with messages about Sam being the one lying in a hospital somewhere, and he’s relieved when Sam only protests a little when he tells him that he wants to stay in Lawrence instead of go back to school.

Things change a little bit between them after that as they both realize that the only thing they really have left is each other and when Sam graduates from high school in a couple of years with a shiny valedictorian sash around his shoulders and a full-ride to Stanford for his troubles, it isn’t even a question that Dean will follow him there.

*******

When Dean was a kid-- real young, before Sam was born, he was pretty sure-- he remembers spending the muggy, Kansas summer evenings sitting on the porch with his parents after dinner, swishing back and forth next to them on the porch swing, his legs dangling as they didn’t quite manage to reach the ground yet. Sometimes when Mr. Zuckerman down the road had a nice, big crop of watermelons, he would sell them real cheap and Dean would beg his mom to let him go to the fruit stand with her so he could rap his little fists on every melon himself and pretend like he knew how to pick out the perfect one. In hindsight, he’s sure that he didn’t actually have a clue, but Mom always indulged him and usually he got lucky anyway. There were probably pictures that existed at some point, he figured, of him in all of his bowl-cut glory burying his messy face in a big slice of watermelon while one or both of his parents looked on in amusement. If they did exist then, like most photos from his early childhood, they probably burned up in the fire that came not long after, but he doesn’t like to think about that part.

Instead, he tries to remember the happier aspects of those moments they spent together, like the way Dad would challenge him to watermelon seed spitting contests that he usually let Dean win even though his pitiful attempts at spewing the seeds rarely even made it off the edge of the porch. Spitting the seeds was the most important part of watermelon eating, Dad informed him once with the same level of seriousness that he used when he talked to Dean about things like stranger danger and not sticking forks into light sockets, because if he swallowed the seeds, then brand new watermelons would grow in his belly. Mom always rolled her eyes and smacked Dad’s shoulder when he tried to tease him like that, but Dean took his words as gospel truth and religiously spit out the seeds every single time (a habit that he later passed down to Sam when he was old enough). He eventually realized that no such thing would happen, of course, but that didn’t stop him from having anxiety about it as a kid. Every so often,  he would have nightmares about it, about accidentally swallowing watermelon seeds and having them sprout deep in his belly, the melon growing inside of him until he was as round as a basketball and the vines began slowly crawling out of his mouth. It was a ridiculous thing to dream about, but the nightmares always scared the pants off of him and woke him up in the middle of night, leaving him no choice but to creep into his parents’ bedroom and wriggle his way between them in bed so he could get a decent night’s sleep.

Loving Sam feels a little bit like that, like he had something taking root inside of him that just grew and grew in his belly until it crushed his insides and didn’t leave room for anything else.  It’s so all-consuming that sometimes he can’t believe that Sam didn’t know about it just by looking at him, because he could swear that he was practically bursting at the seams with it; in his more dramatic moments, he imagines his feelings for Sam literally tearing him apart, leaving him nothing more than a pile of fleshy shreds formerly known as Dean Winchester. Unlike when he was a kid, these dreams aren’t the product of a child’s overactive imagination that could be soothed by his mother singing softly into his ear until he drifted off to sleep again. If his parents were still alive and  knew the kind of thoughts he had about Sam day in and day out, they would probably be more likely to ship him off to some institution than comfort him about it.

It’s difficult to keep this fact in mind, however, when Sam decides to constantly show up at his apartment despite having a perfectly good dorm in order to do things like eat all of his food (annoying) and sprawl his unfairly tanned and toned body all over his furniture (annoying in a different, more alarming way). When Sam gets himself a girlfriend after a couple of years and presumably spends most of his time sprawled out on _her_ , Dean tries to tell himself that it’s a good thing, that it’s a sign that he needs to move on and stop pining over someone who couldn’t and shouldn’t reciprocate his feelings.

He isn’t quite sure what kind of sign it is when Sam’s relationship crashes and burns after Jess moves across the country for grad school and he shows up at Dean’s door soon afterwards mostly drunk and babbling about how they should move in together since he didn’t intend on renewing the lease to his and Jess’ apartment anyway.

It just made economical sense for them to live together while Sam worked his way through law school, right? And if it made less sense for them to keep doing so even after Sam passed the bar and got his first big boy job at a fancy law firm that had him raking in far more money than living in their junky little apartment necessitated, then neither of them bothered to say anything about it.

**********

It’s long past midnight by the time that they finally stumble out of the bar and Dean sorely regrets being baited into having a drinking contest with one of the cretins that Sam works with. Again. Their apartment is only a few blocks away from the bar, but it might as well be miles away for as heavy and uncoordinated as his limbs feel, courtesy of more whiskey than any human being should consume during the span of one night. Sam ended up even worse off than he is, and he’s  practically useless as he leans that giant body of his against Dean during their walk home, nearly knocking them both over at several points. Dean is cognizant enough to try and savor the way that Sam feels when he presses up against him and drunk enough not to feel too guilty about the way that he’s starting to get turned on by his drunken little brother. It’s a good place to be in, and he won’t need to examine that particular thought too closely until the booze fog lifts from his brain, which is a definite upside.

The walk home takes several times longer than it should have, but eventually Dean manages to drag them both up to their apartment floor without either of them tumbling down the stairs and cracking their head open, so he’s going to chalk this one up in the win column. It takes him five tries to actually get the key in the lock, but eventually the door swings open and once they’re  inside, he triumphantly tosses the keys towards the bowl on the counter and misses by a mile as they land in the kitchen sink, jangling mockingly at him.

“Three points!” Sam whoops, throwing his arms up in the air in a cheer. He isn’t even being sarcastic either, which Dean takes as a sign that he’s well and truly wasted.

“Drunk Sam is awfully supportive,” Dean concurs. “I like drunk Sam.”

Sam lets out a noise that’s close enough to a giggle that Dean would definitely make fun of him for it if he still remembers it in the morning. Sam’s cheeks are flushed pink the way they always were when he got a little too much booze in him and he seems so carefree in that moment that it takes Dean’s breath away for just an instant. “Drunk Sam likes you too,” Sam says, nonsensically.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, not bothering to hide his grin. “Well, not for nothin’, but I think Drunk Sam likes just about everyone. You tried to chat up a fire hydrant on the way here.” He slowly begins to guide them down the hall to their respective bedrooms as Sam chatters. He figures that putting Sam to bed as soon as possible is better than risking him clomping around the apartment all night, Godzilla-ing all of their belongings with his clumsy limbs.

“I like you the best though,” Sam says, insistent and firm as if it’s the most important thing in the world that Dean believes him whole-heartedly. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t hope it’s true.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, placating. “I’m awesome; I get it. But right now, I think we both need to hit the hay.”

“Really awesome,” Sam agrees, his voice barely a slurred whisper. “Like, way awesome.” He’s  so close to Dean now that he can feel Sam’s hot, whiskey breath against his cheek, and he’s backed up against the closed door of Sam’s room by Sam’s larger frame. They’re near enough to each other that Dean is almost positive that Sam can hear the way his heart is pounding in his chest and when Sam begins to lean his mouth down towards his own, he thinks it might stop beating altogether. Sam pauses momentarily  like he isn’t sure whether or not Dean would attempt to dodge whatever is about to happen, but he stays stock-still, afraid to break the spell cast by this awful, wonderful, drunken moment. Despite the lead-up, he’s still surprised when he feels Sam’s lips crash gracelessly against his own. Sam tastes like booze, and his mop of hair has apparently absorbed all of the smoke that was in the bar judging by the whiff Dean got of it, but he’s pretty sure that he isn’t much better off, so he decides to let that slide.

He knows that he should have pushed Sam away the second their lips touched, should have been the responsible older brother and put Sam right to bed and prayed that they both forgot about it come morning, but he doesn’t. A drunken mistake is probably the only way he’ll  ever get to have Sam like this, and he figures that he might as well make the most of it, so he lets his hands tangle in Sam’s messy hair as he returns the kiss.

*********

 

After a week or two, Dean has grown to accept that they’re now a daily part of his life, little recurring annoyances that only serve to drive him crazy and make him surly enough that the other guys down at the shop have taken to giving him a wide berth at work.

Pamphlets.

Ones with teenagers in preppy sweaters tossing around a frisbee on what was obviously a college campus, borderline psychotic smiles on their faces. It seems like they would pop up wherever Dean went; sometimes they’re tucked under his pillow, or pinned to the fridge, or even slipped into the box of fruit loops he munches on when he’s too lazy to cook breakfast. When he begins finding them under the impala’s windshield wipers, he finally has enough.

“Can you just give it a rest already?” He sourly greets Sam as he walks through the door one evening. A veritable mountain of college themed pamphlets sit beside him on the kitchen table as his evidence.

“Give what a rest?” Sam asks innocently.

“Seriously?” He picks up one of the pamphlets and beans Sam in the head with it.

Sam manages to at least _pretend_ to look contrite, but it only makes Dean more on guard.

“I just thought...you know, that you might want to look into going back to school at some point. I guess this just wasn’t the most subtle method.”

Dean glares at him as he reaches over and pulls out a pamphlet from the toaster-- which had to have been a fire hazard, thanks Sam-- and brandishes it in front of Sam wordlessly in response.

“Okay, definitely not subtle,” Sam says, abashed. Dean really wants to know who the hell decided to let him become a lawyer. “But you never ended up finishing your degree after you dropped out when…” When he ditched school after  their family imploded on itself (again), Sam doesn’t say, but Dean can fill in the blanks just fine. “And I know you could probably finish your degree with no problem, so I just figured--”

“What? That you’re too good to be with someone who doesn’t have a fancy degree now?” Dean asks, self-aware enough to realize that he’s being a dick but miffed enough at Sam for butting into his life to not really care.

Rather than take the bait, Sam simply raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, knock it off.  You could scrape the vomit off the sides of amusement park rides for a living and you know I’d support you if that was what you were really passionate about.”

“What makes you think I’m _not_ passionate about working down at the shop?”

“Because I know you, Dean. I know you love working on cars, but I also know that you’ve been doing the same thing day in and day out for years now. Can you really tell me that the repetition of it isn’t driving you nuts?” It’s a valid point, Dean has to admit and he wonders if he’s been telegraphing it that strongly lately or if Sam just knows him well enough to look for the hints. He’s worked in the same shop in the same position since they moved out to California and every day people bring their cars in with the same damn problems that he could fix with his hands tied behind his back.

“So, what? You want me to Rodney Dangerfield it up at college so a bunch of kids can laugh at the geezer who wandered onto the campus?”

The scrunched up look of exasperation on Sam’s face is going to give him wrinkles, and Dean barely resists pointing this out. “You realize that you’re barely in your thirties, right? You’re not exactly knocking at death’s door. Literally thousands of people your age have gone back to college to get their degrees, and I know for a fact that you actually enjoyed going to college.”

“I couldn’t afford the tuition,” Dean tries weakly.

“ _We_ could afford it. We still live in a starter apartment; it’s not like I haven’t been able to save up a bunch of money from my job.” Sam doesn’t even bother to fully pay attention at this point, seemingly sure that he’s going to triumph over Dean’s token protests.

He’s probably right, but Dean decides to make him earn it anyway.“What about all the newfangled technology kids are using these days? I can’t keep up with that.”

“...again, you’re not _sixty._ You still had computers on campus the last time you were in school.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean allows, pacing in front of the kitchen table as genuine anxiety begins to creep along. “But what if I fail all of my classes and you decide to leave me out of shame?”

Sam’s face softens as he puts his hands on his shoulders to still his nervous fluttering. “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says sincerely. “But if you do have trouble, then I’ll make flashcards for you and help you study.”

“But--”

Sam holds up a hand

“Look, when you dropped out of school to stay at home with me, I felt like I should have fought you harder on it instead of just letting you give up your dreams so you could support mine. Just...let me support you for once, okay? If you genuinely don’t like it then you can drop out, but at least give it a shot.” The look on Sam’s face is so earnest and pleading that Dean is barely able to look at it, and he finally decides to give up the ghost.

“I don’t regret what I did back then for a single second,” Dean says,  just to get one thing straight first. “But if you want to be my tuition sugar daddy, I guess I can’t stop you.”

The blinding grin that Sam gives him in return almost makes all of the pain in the ass schoolwork he’s about to have to do worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dean waits all night for Sam to get home, growing increasingly impatient with each minute that Sam fails to materialize at their door. Sam had promised him earlier that day that for the first time in several weeks, he wouldn’t be working late and they could have the weekend all to themselves, but so far it seems like Sam was going back on his word and got too caught up at the office again. Things had been tense between them all week; Dean’s been busy studying for and finishing up his final exams while Sam was run ragged doing interviews and gathering research for an important, upcoming deposition, and the combined stress is something that’s left them snappish with each other.

It isn’t uncommon for them to get like this; sometimes one or both of them will get in a foul mood for a while whenever the pressure of school or work gets to them, but eventually things calm down and they make it up to each other with peace offerings of food, drink, and, more often than not, sloppy couch blowjobs while some dumb action flick plays in the background. It’s a pretty sweet deal as far as Dean is concerned. Earlier today, he bought Sam a pack of the fancy craft beers that he pretends not to love; they were cold at one point in the evening, but now they’re sitting on the coffee table in a small puddle of their own condensation as they steadily grow warmer.

After a while, Dean dozes off on the couch as the tv flickers in the background on mute and he jolts up when he hears the piercing ringing of his phone (he left the volume on high, just in case Sam finally got his head out of his ass and realized what time it was). He feels relief when he sees Sam’s name on the caller ID and begins to sarcastically greet his brother when he’s suddenly cut off by a voice he’s never heard before. He feels like cold water has been dumped on him when the person on the other line informs him that they’re a paramedic who saw that Dean was listed as Sam’s emergency contact in his phone (according to him, it was the only personal belonging they found on Sam; as his wallet and ID were nowhere to be found) and he informs Dean that Sam’s being taken to a nearby hospital after being found unconscious and bleeding at a park just a mile away from their apartment, the one that Sam cuts through whenever he wants a shortcut home.

Dean feels a shaky sort of numbness as he frantically throws on the first pair of clothes that he sees and searches the apartment for his keys. The entire trip to the hospital passes in a blur for him and when he gets there, the only thing he finds out is that Sam has been taken into emergency surgery and, for a while, he doesn’t know anything beyond that as he nervously sits in the waiting room.

Dean doesn’t have the best track record with hospital waiting rooms. He remembers, just barely, sitting in a waiting room similar to this one when he was four years old on the night that Mom died; same tacky pattern on the tiles, and the chairs were practically identical except they were puke green instead of a dingy yellow. Maybe all the hospitals ordered their decor from the same, tired catalogue (Sam would know, maybe. He always knows weirdly specific  crap like that that no one else really thinks to wonder about, and Dean makes a note to ask him about it). He was old enough to have a vague concept of death but young enough to operate under a child’s naive assumption that everything would be okay because doctors made people better, and his mom would be no exception to this. Sam-- still an itty bitty thing-- squirmed in his arms and fussed up a storm all the while, and Dean kept tugging on his dad’s sleeve in an attempt to get his attention, but he didn’t respond to anything at all until a doctor came into the room to tell him that Mary didn’t make it, and their family became one person smaller.

Next time, Sam was the only person in the waiting room with him and they were both more than old enough to understand the gravity of the situation as they realized that the only family they had left was each other. As heartbroken and grief-addled his brain was at the time, he still remembers feeling a guilty sense of relief that at least it wasn’t Sam who was going to be lying in some hospital morgue. There was no one to wait with him now, and if the pattern continued, then Dean would be leaving this waiting room with no family at all.

Dean isn’t sure how long it takes for Sam to come out of surgery, but it’s long enough for his ass to go completely numb on the paper thin cushion of the shitty hospital chair and he feels like he’s going to throw up when a doctor approaches him with little splashes of blood still visible on her scrubs and while he’s immediately told that Sam is in stable condition, that nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn’t go away as she leads him to a more private area to explain the extent of Sam’s condition to him. She tells him that the surgery was necessitated by a badly broken wrist that Sam sustained but that the more crucial danger was in repairing a heavily bleeding stab wound sustained to his thigh. He was lucky, apparently, if you could call it that. If someone had found Sam just a little while longer, he might have bled out before he even reached the hospital. She’s a little more delicate when she explains the next part to him, but Dean doesn’t think that getting the news that his younger brother was raped could have been made palatable to him no matter how gently and carefully worded the explanation was.

He’s a little surprised by how quickly they let him see Sam, but he’s warned that he’ll probably be pretty out of it due to blood loss and coming off of the anesthetic they used on him during the surgery. Dean was briefed about Sam’s condition, but still isn’t quite prepared to see him in the state that he’s in. He takes note of the bruises that have blossomed over Sam’s face and shudders when he sees the ones that circle his neck, clearly made by human hands. The most jarring thing, however, is Sam’s hair. Or what’s left of it. His brother has worn his hair on the longer side ever since he could get away with doing so and just a few days ago, Dean remembers running his fingers through the long, silky strands on a rare morning when he woke up before Sam did. Now, the locks are much, much shorter; choppy and frayed, almost as if someone has carelessly hacked it off. He asks Sam’s doctor, the one that was in the operating room, if his hair needed to be cut shorter in order to get it out of the way for some medical purpose but the surgeon is baffled by this. To her knowledge, Sam was wheeled into the OR with his hair exactly the way it is now, and she’s fairly sure the paramedics wouldn’t have had any cause to cut it either. The only explanation Dean can think of is that the person who put Sam in the hospital in the first place is the same one who chopped his hair off, and even though the act was relatively harmless in comparison to everything else that was done to Sam, the senseless cruelty of it still sends a chill down his spine.

He manages to forget about this temporarily when Sam’s eyelids begin fluttering a few minutes later, and the relief that floods through his veins is nearly strong enough to knock him over. Sam’s eyes dart around the room in bleary panic before his gaze lands on Dean and he seems to relax a little bit at the familiar face even though he doesn’t seem to know how to process the situation. “It’s alright, Sammy,” he soothes in what he hopes is a reassuring voice as he carefully strokes his thumb over Sam’s good hand.

It seems to work for a moment but eventually, Sam becomes much less out of it to the point that he’s aware of his surroundings and able to ask what the hell happened to him. He doesn’t seem to remember much about the incident; whether that’s because of the trauma or because the anesthesia is still making him foggy, Dean isn’t sure but it kills him to watch the way that Sam skin pales and his lips draw into a tight line as he’s told about his laundry list of injuries by his doctor. He doesn’t say anything at all when he’s told about being sexually assaulted, doesn’t seem to know how to even address it, and Dean cringes when he sees Sam’s hand automatically reach up towards his hair. Sam tends to comb his fingers through his hair when he’s stressed, but this time his shaky hand grasps at air for something that isn’t there any more.  When Sam realizes what exactly happened to his hair, his face crumples for just a second and it’s probably the closest thing Dean’s seen to Sam processing actual emotion up until this point and he isn’t sure if it’s because of the hair thing specifically or if it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The cops show up the next day when Sam is feeling more clear headed, and when they ask to take Sam’s statement, Dean can’t help but feel a little hurt when Sam gives him a pointed look and suggests that he take a trip down to the cafeteria to get something to eat in a way that’s clearly a polite dismissal. The way he’s practically slumped over one of the garishly orange tables in the cafeteria while he half-heartedly pokes at a burger probably makes a pitiful sight but he manages to hold out for an entire hour before he creeps back towards Sam’s room, peeking around the door frame to confirm that his visitors are gone. Sam looks like he’s lost in thought based on the way he’s staring blankly out of the window and Dean winces when the greeting he gives makes Sam jump a little in his bed.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he says and Sam accepts his apology with a slight nod but doesn’t acknowledge his presence verbally. “So, uh, any good news from the cops?” He asks after an awkward pause when it’s clear that Sam isn’t going to be forthright about what happened while he was being interviewed.

Sam shrugs. “They don’t have any leads and the fact that I could barely give them a description didn’t exactly help, so no. Not good news. Not any kind of news, really.” His words have an eerie sort of flatness to them as if he’s talking about the weather instead of something related to the fact that he was nearly murdered barely a day ago and it leaves Dean feeling off-kilter.

“It’s still pretty early,” Dean says, forcing an optimistic smile onto his face that he doesn’t remotely feel. “For all we know, the whole thing could turn around tomorrow.”

“I guess,” Sam says, monotone voiced again as he’s clearly finished with the conversation. “I’m actually feeling kind of tired; I think I’m gonna try to get a few hours of sleep.” He isn’t able to actually angle his body away from Dean without aggravating the wound on his thigh, but Dean gets the impression that he would if he could. He doesn’t say anything when Dean plops himself down on the tiny couch in the room instead of leaving though, and it only takes a few minutes for Dean to see the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest. Semi-comfortable couch or no, Dean’s not sure that he’ll be able to get any sleep that day.

Sam doesn’t become any more open to discussing what happened to him over the next couple of days, but he never throws Dean out of the room again either, and he’s reassured by the fact that Sam seems to prefer his company over anyone else’s judging by how often he makes Dean dispatch any potential visitors he gets. If he has to use the “he’s taking a nap” excuse too many more times, people are probably going to start thinking that Sam’s comatose, but he dutifully keeps it up anyway because he probably wouldn’t be in the mood to entertain guests if he were Sam either.

Mostly, the people who visit are well meaning friends who come armed with entire garden fulls of bouquets and Get Well cards that clutter the hospital room more than anything else. A few people from Sam’s job come around too, including his boss. For once, Crowley doesn’t look like a smug bastard when Dean sees him and assures him, in that cryptic, roundabout way of his, that Sam will still have a job at their firm if he needs to take a leave of absence. He also leaves Dean with a few business cards for several adept but no doubt shady attorneys that owe him a favor and who deal with violent crime related civil suits. In case Sam is feeling a tad litigious when he’s finished “napping” he tells Dean helpfully. He’s not aware that the person who put Sam in the hospital isn’t exactly in a position to get sued at the moment, but he figures that it’s probably the best version of a “get well” gift that Crowley knows how to give, so he accepts it in good spirit.

***********

When Sam is given the OK to leave the hospital, he can’t seem to get out of there fast enough while Dean feels a bit more trepidation about it. He’s more or less fine with the prospect of monitoring Sam’s wound, and despite some initial embarrassment, Sam doesn’t seem to mind letting Dean help him with the mobility exercises and muscle massages that his nurses showed him how to do. It’s more the fact that he’s no longer entirely sure how to interact with Sam that concerns him. Usually, Sam’s been the one to gently prod him into opening up but now that the shoe is on the other foot, he doesn’t know what’s too much and what’s not enough. The drive home is as silent as Dean predicted it would be but the naked relief on Sam’s face to finally be out of the hospital is something at least, and Dean uses the time mentally go over all of the medical instruction that they were given.

When they finally make it to their apartment (while cursing his past self for renting a second floor apartment with an elevator-less complex), Dean figures that the best course of action might just be to do something they would normally do together and he tries to goad Sam into relaxing and watching a movie with him (even a lame movie, he offers. Like one of those sad documentaries about bee population decline or what the hell ever Sam likes to watch), but Sam begs off of it and instead heads to his room for a nap.

 _His_ room, the one that used to be Sam’s before they figured that it was just easier to sleep in the same bed. He isn’t sure why it surprises him that Sam might not be too keen on sharing a bed with someone at the moment and he tries not to make anything of it when Sam continues to sleep in that bedroom on each subsequent night; it’s understandable that Sam would want some space, he tells himself. It’s a perfectly logical thing.

**********

“I can even that out for you if you want,” Dean says one day about a week after they’ve been home as he watches Sam sit on the couch and use his good hand to fidget with the uneven, butchered remains of his hair. He usually picks up more shifts at the shop whenever he goes on break at the end of a semester, but he’s been taking a step back indefinitely to help Sam recuperate, even if his efforts are often responded to half-hearted at best.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when Sam actually tells him yes this time. Dean’s fairly sure that his surprise shows on his face but he recovers quickly enough to help Sam hobble in front of the bathroom mirror. Sam seems slightly taken aback by the still healing bruises on his face as if he hasn’t been near a mirror since he got back and Dean resolves to take his mind off of it as quickly as possible.

“This takes me back,” he says nostalgically. “Remember when I used to cut your hair for you in the backyard before picture day at school?”

“I remember looking like a serial killer in my school pictures.” Dean wants to be offended but can’t be, partially on the grounds that it’s sort of true and mostly on the grounds that it earns him a brief smile from Sam.

“A very fashionable serial killer,” he says defensively and is met with some definite skepticism from Sam. “But enough about my past masterpieces, let’s see what we can work with here.”

Not a whole lot, it turns out. Some of the chunks of hair are cut so short that making it look remotely even would have to involve getting the rest of it down pretty close to the scalp as well and the resignation on Sam’s face tells him that he knows this as well. Sam stiffens slightly when he first lowers the scissors near his hair and Dean instinctively rubs gentle circles at the base of Sam’s neck, feeling pleased when Sam leans into the touch and relaxes. For a few minutes, the only sound in the apartment is the quiet _snip snip_ the scissors make as chunks of hair drift into the sink, and even though he knows that he salvaged as much hair as he reasonably could, he still feels a little guilty at short it is now.

“He said it was pretty,” Sam finally says a long moment of silence spent thoughtfully looking at his reflection. “That’s mostly the thing that I remember. I guess he wanted a souvenir or something because after he was-- after he was finished, he dragged out this huge knife and and brought it so close to my neck that at first I thought he was gonna…”

“Jesus Christ, Sammy” Dean whispers because he can’t tell Sam to stop talking like part of him wants to, but he also can’t help but say _something_.

“But he didn’t, obviously, even if he did end up knifing me later anyway. He just started hacking through my hair instead. What an asshole.”

“It’s just hair anyway,” he concludes quietly,  his shoulders slumped. Dean isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to himself.

************

After a couple of weeks of having Sam back in the apartment, Dean hesitantly starts picking up shifts at the shop again and Sam assures him that he’s fine with the alone time. Dean’s pretty sure it’s at least partially because  while Sam claims he’s completely on leave from work, he probably wants him out of the apartment so that it’s easier for him to sneak some work in on whatever legal documents he’s been getting emailed from work on the sly. Dean isn’t happy about it, but he doesn’t call him on it, even if he sorely wants to everytime he sees the dark, semi-permanent circles around Sam’s eyes that inform him that Sam has been sleeping fitfully if he’s been sleeping at all.

Time marches on, and eventually fall semester starts for Dean and Sam insists that he’s ready to go back into the office instead of work from home. His hair still isn’t back to its former glory, but it’s not nearly as butchered as it looked when Sam was still in the hospital and he’s pretty sure Sam is still the best looking guy in court anyway. They both have a mutual but silent agreement that Dean will drive him to and from work from now on and, if he’s being honest, it becomes one of the most enjoyable rituals of his day, especially when he forces them to stop for breakfast burritos on the way there and gets to watch Sam attempt to avoid getting food smears on his fancy suits. Things aren’t perfect between them or even mostly back to the way they used to be, but sometimes before Sam gets out of the car to to head into work, he’ll lean over and peck Dean on the lips in a ridiculously chaste way that still makes his heart skip a beat.

A particularly good day finds Dean actually able to cajole Sam into sitting on the couch with him and watching a truly terrible movie about a hyena-shark mutant hybrid that terrorizes a helpless Floridian town; it’s ridiculous and probably not even the worst thing to happen to Florida in Dean’s opinion, but they both get pleasantly tipsy while mocking the movie, and Dean nearly forgets everything that’s happened over the past few weeks. So much so that it takes him a while to notice that Sam’s gone quiet beside him, which is ludicrous considering that the hyena-shark had just eaten an entire schoolbus full of remarkably wooden child actors.

“Aw, Sam, you totally just missed--” Dean turns around to chastise Sam only to find him slumped beside him, dozing peacefully while the sounds of melodramatic screaming emanate from the television. It’s tempting to let Sam stay like that, but he also knows that Sam’s neck and back will thank him for waking him up, and he gently shakes his shoulder until Sam lets out a half-conscious grumble and allows himself to be led down the hall by Dean. He’s a little surprised when Sam bypasses his own door and follows Dean to the bedroom at the end of the hall and then proceeds to flop down on their bed like he never left it at all. He definitely doesn’t complain though, even when Sam’s too warm, octopus arms wrap around him that night and refuse to let go.


	3. Chapter 3

Frequently after Dean drops Sam off at the office and makes his congested commute to school, he can’t help but apologize to Baby silently after he leaves her in the college’s shitty, crowded parking garage that’s full of equally shitty drivers who don’t know how to conduct themselves around such a fine piece of machinery. She’s been just as cooped up in the Bay Area as him, and it’s been a long time since Dean’s had the chance to really take her out for a spin. It’s just plain sad is what it is and since he just finished his fall semester and has a whole month without classes to worry about, he reasons that a car like her deserves be able to stretch her wings for a little while. 

“’Wings’? Your car isn’t Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” Sam says when Dean tells him as much. He’s still in his work clothes, his tie barely loosened, and he’s staring at Dean with a vaguely concerned expression. It’s probably a fair enough reaction, Dean can admit, considering that he just burst through the front door a few minutes ago and yelled at Sam to pack his bags. 

“Wings, wheels, whatever. You know what I mean,” Dean says dismissively. He flops down onto the couch next to Sam and sprawls across it, letting his legs rest across Sam’s lap. Sam barely reacts to the intrusion aside from giving him a token, half-hearted glare and Dean knows that he’s managed to catch him in a good mood, which is something that he needs to take full advantage of if he’s going to convince him to ditch work for a few weeks to go on an impulsive vacation. He makes sure to put on his best “gosh, aren’t I an endearing guy that you’d want to spend weeks trapped in a car with?” expression on his face before he says “Come on, man. Just you, me, the open road, and a million dumb tourist traps we can swing by. Don’t you sit here and tell me that you’ve never wanted a picture of yourself standing next to the world’s largest bottle of ketchup.” 

“World’s largest ketchup bottle?,” Sam echos, still skeptical of Dean’s flawless plan. “You know, with an argument like that, maybe you should have been the lawyer in the family.” 

Dean’s hand flies to his chest in mock offense. “That might be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says dramatically. “But I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you if you decide you want to come with me.” 

Sam sighs and closes the laptop that sits on the coffee table in front of him, the one that Dean knows he opened up as soon as he walked in the door and has at least five different half-typed up work related emails on the screen even though he just came home from the office. “Dean…”

“Give me one reason why you don’t want to,” he tries. “And I mean a good reason. Don’t say ‘work’ because you know damn well that they owe you this.” 

Sam glowers at him and Dean can tell that he was opening his mouth to use that exact excuse and is thrown off now that his legs were cut off from under him. “Who decides to go on a cross country road trip during the winter?” he asks. It’s a weak excuse and judging by the expression that twists on his face as soon as he’s said it, Sam is fully aware of that fact. 

“Summer roadtrips are cliche,” Dean says, cocksure. “At least this way, we’d get to experience a real winter for once. Do you remember what snow looks like, Sam? It’s a distant memory to me.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and mutters something about the fact that they were in South Dakota for Christmas just last year, but he doesn’t truly attempt to counter the point and silence stretches between them as Sam appears to mull the idea over, his resolve obviously crumbling. “Why is this so important to you?” he finally asks, his voice soft.

When he asks this, Dean’s gaze unconsciously moves towards the kitchen table and looks at the way that every inch of the surface is covered in legal documents and notes about various depositions just like it has been for a while now because Sam has been running himself into the ground for a firm that Dean is pretty sure he doesn’t truly even care about anymore. That’s one reason. Another is the fact that while Sam has gotten better over the last couple of months, a lot better even, it’s clear that he’s not dealing as well as he pretends. For all of his assurances, Dean can still see the deep circles of exhaustion under his eyes every day and the way that his dumb, fancy suits still hang off of his frame a little more loosely than they should because Sam picks at his dinner more often than not. They share a bed at night, so it doesn’t exactly escape his notice when Sam’s side of the bed is colder than it should be when Dean wakes up in the morning, a sign that he probably gave up on sleep after a few hours and wandered out of the bedroom, no doubt to hunch over his laptop in the living room. Sam wants to pretend he’s okay and, honestly, so does Dean most of the time, but he also knows that staying in the same city where everything went to shit is taking a toll on Sam no matter what he says to the contrary. But maybe that’s just what Dean tells himself so he doesn’t have to admit that he might be the one who isn’t dealing well, and that a part of him believes that putting state lines between them and California will somehow magically make everything better. Or, at the very least, it’ll keep him and Sam in each other’s back pocket for a few weeks so he doesn’t have to deal with the tiny, niggling fear that one day he’ll come home from work or school to find out that Sam went off the deep end while he was gone and decided that he didn’t want to deal with anything at all anymore. 

It isn’t a particularly charitable assumption to make about Sam, and Dean is almost positive that he wouldn’t take any drastic measures but it’s that tiny little margin of error between what he knows about Sam and what he’s only pretty sure he knows about Sam that’s enough to terrify him. 

“I don’t know, I guess I just miss hanging out with you sometimes. When’s the last time we really had fun together?” he says instead, because that’s true too and maybe that’s the only reason he really needs. Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, and Dean thinks that he might have pushed him too hard until Sam closes his laptop with a click. 

“I could probably swing a few weeks off.” He says it as if he’s doing Dean a huge favor, but he’s pretty sure he can hear at least a small amount of anticipation in his voice. Dean can work with that. 

It takes a few days longer than he’d hoped for Sam to get everything at the firm squared away enough for him to blow town for a while, but even just a few hours on the road are enough to make him forget about his previous antsiness and he can practically see the tension melting away from Sam’s shoulders the further they travel. As promised, Dean makes sure to hit up every tourist trap in their path that isn’t closed up for the winter and his phone gradually fills up with pictures of the two of them standing in front of things like dumb, comically oversized utensils and especially weird exhibits in whatever “museum of oddity” they happen to pass by. Some of these adventures are met with more enthusiasm from Sam than others (Dean would argue that he was almost too excited when they visited that ax murder house a few days in), but he thinks it’s more or less safe to say a roadtrip isn’t the worst idea that he’s ever had. 

************  
“Aw, come on, Sam,” Dean whines as Sam smacks his hand away from the to-go container he was reaching for. “It’s Christmas; have a heart.” 

“It’s the day after Christmas, and if you wanted to eat it so badly, you should have done it back at the diner instead of while driving down an icy road.” Sam’s voice is firm and he sets the container of leftover pie in his lap to keep it out of Dean’s reach. In his defense, it’s not even snowing anymore and they’re not exactly in danger of hitting anyone on the empty Colorado road that they’re driving on. Plus, it’s just really good pie. 

He’s not surprised by the eyeroll that Sam gives him when he tells him as much, but he is a little surprised when Sam pops open the lid of the container and scoops up a spoonful of cherry pie to hold out to him. 

“Aha, teamwork!” Dean says, delighted as he angles his head slightly towards Sam. “That’s more like it.” 

Just as Sam is about to deliver the heaping spoon into Dean’s mouth, he swerves it and pops it into his own mouth, grinning at him smugly as he chews. Dean’s eyes widen as he sputters out accusations of betrayal and when Sam throws back his head to cackle at him with glee, partially chewed pie still visible, it occurs to him that it’s the first time in a long time that he can remember Sam really laughing about something. Even though it’s at his expense, he can’t help but grin back at the sound that’s even sweeter to him than the pie that Sam eventually deigns to spoon-feed him after all.  
**************  
New Year’s Eve had never been a big holiday for them. Dean’s pretty sure that there was some excitement in it back when they were little kids pouring sparkling grape juice into plastic, dollar store champagne glasses and getting a thrill from the novelty of staying up until midnight, and he has some fuzzy memories of accompanying Sam to a couple of truly regrettable and firewhiskey filled college parties, but the past couple of years were marked less by drunken celebrating and more by the two of them stealthily dodging party invitations and pretending that they didn’t fall asleep on the couch before 11:00 p.m. while footage of a bunch of suckers freezing their asses off in Times Square still played on the tv. This time around though, it feels like it should be a momentous occasion, a well deserved celebration for surviving the royal ass kicking that the year deemed fit to give them. The mark of a new beginning, or some metaphorical crap like that. Whatever. 

He figures they should be somewhere in the New England area by that point in their trip and he has some vaguely formed plans about taking Sam out for a lobster dinner and then spending the evening at the nearest bar so they could sit around and make fun of everyone’s accents while drinking to their heart’s content. Unfortunately, the year can’t seem to resist one last opportunity to kick him in the teeth because by the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, they’re holed up in a kitschy, lighthouse themed motel in Something-port, Maine while Dean convalesces from a cold. According to him, it was a cruel twist of fate that ruined his holiday plans. According to Sam, it was an inevitable result of traveling across the country during flu season and eating the majority of their meals at diners and fast food restaurants filled with germy children coughing on everything. Regardless of the root cause, Dean spends the better part of the day huddling his achy body under a sailboat covered duvet and can barely make it to the bathroom without running the risk of making the room spin, much less woo Sam with a fancy dinner. 

He drifts in and out of sleep for most of the day and he must have missed Sam leaving the motel room at some point because he gets jolted out of a light doze by the thunk of the motel room door closing and the sound of keys being tossed onto the table. With a great amount of effort, he untwists himself from his cocoon of blankets-- dislodging a pile of used kleenex in the process-- enough to peek over the top of it to see Sam carrying an armful of plastic bags. 

“Wassat?” he asks, his voice a barely there rasp. He wants to believe that his gravelly voice comes across as sexy, but the sympathetic wince on Sam’s face tells him otherwise. 

“Well, I pretty much wiped out the pharmacy across the street,” Sam says as he overturns one of the bags above the table and unleashes a small mountain of cough drops, kleenex packets, and various brands of cold medicine onto it. “And then I hit the diner next door. It’s not exactly the lobster feast you were planning on, but the sign in their window said their bisque is world famous, so I figured we could give it a shot.”

The mention of food makes Dean’s stomach roil despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten anything all day. “Every place in Maine has ‘world famous’ lobster bisque,” he says grumpily, and promptly feels like a dick for not being enthused by Sam’s efforts. Sam doesn’t seem offended though, and he quietly taps out a few pills from one of the medicine cartons and sets them down on the nightstand alongside a styrofoam cup of steaming soup. 

“Not half-bad,” he acquiesces eventually as he sips a few spoonfuls. He must be more ravenous than he thought because it doesn’t take long for him to slurp down nearly the entire container and Sam gives him a pleased look that makes him feel flushed from more than just his cold. The night isn’t shaping up to be quite the celebration that Dean initially planned, but the comfortable silence between them as they polish off the cheap diner food feels cozy, especially since Sam is sprawled out on the bed right beside him, apparently willing to brave the risk of Dean sneezing on him (again). 

“You know, you could probably still go out and have some fun,” he says some indeterminate amount of time later, feeling slightly guilty for cooping Sam up in the hotel with him. It’s a genuine offer despite the fact that he mostly hopes that Sam won’t take it, especially since he’s been using Sam’s lap as a particularly comfortable pillow. 

Sam pauses the way he’s been absentmindedly scritching his fingers over Dean’s scalp to give him a look of amusement. “What, and miss out on you getting whacked out on cold medicine? Not a chance.” 

“Hey, I’m just saying that if you want to go out and have a drink or something, then I won’t hold it against you. No sense in both of us wasting a perfectly good holiday.” 

“Doesn’t seem like a waste to me. Besides, it’s-- I mean, I guess it’s kind of nice being on this end for once,” Sam says awkwardly. “Taking care of you instead of the other way around. Feels like that’s all you’ve been doing for me lately.” 

Dean frowns at the self-recrimination in his voice even though he’s pretty sure Sam can’t see it from where his face is smushed against his thigh. “You don’t owe me for that,” he says as seriously as his croaky voice will allow, brokering no room for argument. “Not ever.” 

Sam is still for a long time after that, but eventually Dean feels the soothing movement of fingers against his scalp again. “Point taken,” he says softly. “But I should probably at least force you to get some rest. You look like ten miles of bad road. Paved with snot.”

“Hell no. If we can’t party it up, then I’m gonna at least make it until midnight. I’m already so close,” Dean says triumphantly. 

Sam laughs at him. “Dude, it’s like 7:00 pm.” 

Goddammit. 

***********

They’re just outside of Santa Fe and barely a day’s drive from home (maybe longer if Sam lets them stop at that Old West ghost town in Apache Junction like he’s been hinting at, if it’s even open in the dead of winter) when Dean makes the decision to pull over the car on a whim. It’s chillier outside than Dean normally cares for, but the New Mexico sky is clear and the stars bright, and he can’t remember the last time he’s actually paid attention to that sort of thing. Over a decade at least. Back in Kansas, even. 

When he and Sam were kids, they used to sneak out of his bedroom window on occasion so they could lie on the roof and watch the night sky, speaking to each other in hushed tones because Dad’s bedroom was right down the hall and they didn’t want him to get worked up about the (probably reasonable) concern that they would accidentally roll off the house and break their necks. In hindsight, Dean’s pretty sure that Dad cottoned on to their late night adventures due to the combination of the fact that he was a light sleeper and the fact that Sam and Dean were far less subtle than they liked to imagine, but back then there was a certain thrill about the whole thing, about sneaking around, even if it was for something as tame as watching the stars. Sam always seemed particularly enthused about it because it meant that Dean would regale him with stories about the different constellations, some of them true and some that he made up on the fly for entertainment value. 

Dean doesn’t entirely remember when they stopped doing it or why, but he imagines that it was probably around the time that Sam started concentrating more on his studies and didn’t have hours to waste stargazing and when Dean discovered that his bedroom window could be put to better use sneaking out of it so he could get under Cindy Sabbatini’s skirt (not that he regrets it; she was a tongue twister, that girl, in more ways than one). 

Sam gives him a look when he starts easing on the brakes without warning until the car halts on the shoulder of a dark, empty stretch of road. “Something wrong with the car?” 

“Nah, just wanted to get some fresh air for a few minutes. You coming with?” Dean’s already swinging open the car door without waiting for a reply, but the sound of a seatbelt unbuckling is as good a confirmation as any, and a moment later he hears the soft crunch of snow beneath boots as Sam climbs out of the car. Dean settles himself on the hood; he’ll probably start regretting it in a few minutes when the warmth leftover from the engine running eventually fades and leaves the metal ass numbingly cold, but for now he feels a certain coziness despite the chill in the air and he very chivalrously brushes off the dusting of snow that covers the area beside him and pats it invitingly. Sam shakes his head in either fondness or exasperation (Dean typically chooses to believe it’s the former) but sits down beside him anyway. 

“This is nice and all,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “But couldn’t we have done this back in Texas or something?”

“What, can’t handle a little bit of cold weather? Too many California winters have turned you into a real wuss, Sammy.” The words might have had carried more weight had Dean not been shivering slightly as he spoke them.The long sleeves they’re wearing help, but neither of them had bothered to sift through the pile of belongings in the back seat to grab their coats and there’s just enough natural light around for Dean to be able to see the way Sam’s cheeks are flushed a little pink from the cold. 

“Whatever,” Sam says, as he waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re the one who came this close to buying a Snuggie a couple of days ago.” 

Dean looks at him gravely. “We don’t speak about the Snuggie incident...now shut up for a few minutes and just enjoy the view.” 

Sam, in a typical Sam fashion, teases him about it for a little while more, but Dean can’t really hold onto his annoyance any longer when Sam reveals that he swiped the unopened bottle of emergency Jack stuffed into the glovebox, and they spend a few minutes passing the bottle between themselves as they enjoy the quiet winter night. It would be better if they had a couple of thermoses of hot cocoa to dump it into, but for the most part Dean can’t complain, and he gets a strange little thrill every time his fingers brush against Sam’s while exchanging the bottle, as if he’s a giddy schoolboy with a crush or something...if schoolboys drank whiskey on top of cars while risking hypothermia. Whatever. 

“Too much light pollution back in California to see stars like these,” Dean says. “You usually only see lights up there when it’s from planes and satellites or whatever.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh and inches his way a little closer to him until their legs are brushing up against each other and Dean takes a moment to savor the feeling of Sam’s body against his own, nearly missing the next time he speaks. “When we were kids, you used to tell me that the lights from the planes were shooting stars, remember? You always convinced me to make a wish on them. It took me a lot longer than it should have to realize you were just fucking with me.” 

Dean shoves him lightly. “Well, excuse me for trying to inject your childhood with a little bit of magic. Not my fault you don’t have a sense of imagination.” 

“Hey, I’m just saying that I wasted a lot of wishes because of you. You owe me.” 

“Uh-huh.” Dean remembers it, of course. Remembers the way that Sam would squeeze his eyes shut real tight so he could concentrate extra hard on whatever he was about to wish for and Dean would just sit there and watch him, half in amusement at the fact that Sam was putting his faith in a giant hunk of flying metal and half in fondness due to the fact that it was Sam’s faith in him that made him do it in the first place. 

“You know, we could always move somewhere new,” Dean says a little too casually. “Where we could watch the stars and all that junk. Not here, exactly, but somewhere like this. It’s not like we have to stay in California forever.” 

There’s a frown on Sam’s face when he whips his head around to meet his gaze. “You want us to move so you can get a better view of the stars? Are you developing some kind of astronomy fetish or something?”

Dean sighs. “Come on, Sam. I’m being serious; what’s keeping us there?” 

“I have a job.”

“That you only kind of like most of the time.” 

“You have school.” 

“Only for a little while longer. I’m a free agent after that.” 

“We have friends there.” 

“And they have cell phones and email addresses. I think they can live without seeing us every day,” Dean shrugs.

Sam doesn’t respond, but Dean can see him fidgeting, tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm on the car, clearly not wanting to continue discussing the subject. 

Dean can’t help but feel dejected by the lack of engagement. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just figured you might want to start over somewhere new, considering--” he cuts himself off as Sam watches him warily, “--well just...considering.” 

“I think about it sometimes,” Sam says eventually, looking away. “But it just feels like I’d be running away, I guess. I feel like I should be able to stick it out.” 

Dean gently uses his fingers to tilt Sam’s chin upwards until they’re facing each other again. He’s sure his hands are freezing, but Sam doesn’t let it show (or maybe they’re both too numb from the cold at this point to tell the difference anyway). “There’s a difference between running away and just...moving on with your life,” Dean says gently. “And you’re-- we’re allowed to move on. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” 

“Maybe you’re right.” Sam doesn’t look entirely convinced, but the wrinkle in his brow eases and Dean considers it a win. 

“When have I ever been wrong?” He asks. He proceeds to admire the way that Sam manages to abstain from giving him a very thorough recap. 

He’s taken by surprise when, instead of answering, Sam leans towards him and places a quick, frozen kiss to his lips. They’ve gone further than this over the past couple of months as far as intimacy is concerned, but even though the kiss is chaste and he can barely feel it on his numb lips, it makes him feel warmer and he tugs Sam a little more closely against him. 

They don’t talk about the subject of moving again that evening, but Dean wonders if Sam is imagining the same things as him: the idea of living somewhere where they had a home to call their very own. One that had a garage for Baby and a lack of noisy upstairs neighbors blasting shitty music all night long. A town where they wouldn’t have to fear being discovered because people wouldn’t know they were brothers and would probably just as soon assume they were married when they found out they shared a last name instead of related.

Dean loses himself in the fantasy for a couple of more minutes and just when he’s about to drag Sam into the Impala to start finally warming up, he sees a bright light move across the sky and smiles. “Check it out,” he says, nudging Sam with his elbow before pointing towards the airplane that’s flickering through the night. “You better make a wish.” 

Sam rolls his eyes at him, but he squeezes them shut a second later anyway and concentrates. 

Sam never does end up telling him what he wished for, but Dean knows he’ll try and make it come true for him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to come say hi to me on my [tumblr](http://efflorescentjared.tumblr.com/) :D


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